


A Little Help

by captainskellington



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Body Image, Fluff, M/M, this is supposed to be posi please tell me if you think it needs more tags!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 00:05:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2752193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainskellington/pseuds/captainskellington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire takes a long look at his body from a different perspective.<br/>He surprises himself with what he sees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Help

Grantaire can't remember why he left the bed.

He can't remember why it was that he had to pass in front of the full length mirror that covered the inside of Enjolras' (open) wardrobe door.

He can't for the life of him remember how long he's been staring at his reflection in the moonlight, either.

He doesn't exactly like what he sees. Far from it, in fact. He isn't attractive, handsome, pretty, in any description of any of the words, and looking in the mirror wearing nothing but his shorts isn't helping matters.

His facial features are completely out of proportion, his nose is crooked from multiple breakages and improper healings, his skin marked with scars ‒ and not just on his face, all over his body. Those on his face come from chickenpox and childhood acne, those on his torso from fights he barely even remembers, those on his limbs from dark days and nights he'd rather not dwell on. They gleam pale against his dark skin.

He's broken more bones than he can keep track of, much to the consternation of Joly. A lack of coordination outside of the dance studio means he's always got a stunning selection of flourishing bruises on display.

His eyes drop and he crosses his arms self consciously. He's heavier than he'd like despite his fighting and dancing, and it shows in his stomach and thighs. He feels tempted to pinch at the fat there, an old habit he’d worked hard to shake off.

Grantaire squints at his reflection, and unsurprisingly, it squints back.

" _Perspective_ ," a voice whispers in the back of his head. It sounds like Enjolras.

Grantaire glances back over his shoulder towards the bed. Enjolras is dead to the world, face buried in his pillow, blond hair fluffy and tousled and sticking up all over the place. One arm lies flung across the bedsheets, in the space recently vacated by Grantaire.

"Perspective," he mutters ‒ aloud this time ‒ his gaze returning to his reflection.

He frowns. Once upon a time he would have called himself a positive man, but over the years he’s found it more and more simple just to acknowledge the negatives in everything. Now, though… Enjolras is starting to get through to him. “Not,” Grantaire huffs a quiet laugh, careful not to wake him up. “That I’d ever tell _you_ that.”

Enjolras doesn’t completely disregard the negatives, he just prioritises the positives. He sees hope in those that have been cast off as hopeless, encourages improvement in those who the rest of the world has all but given up on. He isn’t naive, he’s perseverant. Not mindlessly optimistic, but blisteringly hopeful.

He looks at himself in the mirror. _What does he see?_

Well, again, there isn’t much to look at. But what _is_ there…

He wriggles his toes to fight off the cold, his eyes ‒ drawn by the movement ‒ catching on two bent out of shape, and it comes to him in a flash.

He hadn’t known Bossuet before he’d accidentally run over his foot on his bike, but spending the next 45 minutes perching precariously behind him after Bossuet insisted on getting him to the hospital was more than enough to cement their friendship. He’d nearly fallen off twice.

That had also been the night they’d met Joly, who scolded Bossuet for about twenty minutes straight for a whole multitude of things including the fact that he hadn’t had a spare helmet for Grantaire to wear. The evening reached its peak when Joly concluded that the damage wasn’t astronomical and all three of them simultaneously chimed “not _toe_ bad, then.” Only the best friendships start with puns, Bossuet always says. (To which Grantaire always replies "Then what kind, pray tell, begin with broken toes?", but that's neither here nor there.)

Grantaire finds himself smiling as his gaze drifts. There’s a permanent dent in his shin from driving it into the edge of a coffee table whilst waltzing with Eponine one New Year, but it’s okay because she has a matching dent just above her ankle.

There’s a series of tiny burn marks running up his outer thigh from an incident involving fireworks, sparklers, Jehan, and an inadvisable amount of alcohol (though that isn’t really saying much considering no amount of alcohol is truly advisable around fireworks, so let’s say really inadvisable). Grantaire can only vaguely recall that whatever happened was utterly beautiful, and Jehan is either too embarrassed or was himself too drunk to remember the events of the night in full himself.

He never used to like his broad shoulders, but now he eyes them appraisingly; finds he can’t quite find it in him to dislike them now he knows he’s fully capable of carrying Combeferre around on them, which makes his most sensible friend whoop and holler like an excitable child, much to the delight of all around.

He’s grinning now, and there’s the slight chip in his upper left incisor from that one time a lousy ex walked into the bar he was in with Bahorel and he panicked, said “Quick, kiss me,” and Bahorel enthusiastically obliged. His teeth weren’t perfect anyway, and he was laughing too hard for the pain to bother him in the immediate aftermath, so he never really minded.

He touches the imperfection and notices that his nails are still painted an array of stunning colours, because Feuilly had ran out of his own appendages to test his numerous polishes and overcoats on and really, Grantaire was more than willing to have miniature pieces of artwork temporarily installed on his body. The paint was beginning to flake off, but nothing lasts forever. He can always paint a new one whenever he next feels so inclined.

His arms slip to a less defensive hold. Cosette always says she admires the way he holds himself, even if he is a clumsy blighter when he isn’t in his concentration zones. Courfeyrac once admitted to him that he gave the best hugs out of everyone he’d ever met, which had cleared up a good few questions Grantaire hadn’t been willing to ask about just how clingy Courfeyrac really is (the answer is: very. He hugs everyone. _Everyone_. A _lot._ ).

The words _Veni, Vidi, Vici_ are tattooed in tiny letters along his inner wrist. They are a reference to the perfectly faded scars along which they line up, as healed as they’ll ever get; to recovery; to a conversation with Marius that only Grantaire and he will ever know about, that brings tears to his eyes to think about even now.

He shakes his head to clear them, and now his eyes rest on his stomach and his mouth twists into a smile. And you know what? Damn it if he hasn’t got a begrudging respect for those blasted internal organs of his. God knows he puts them through hell ‒ now, perhaps less so than in previous years ‒ and yet they never gave up on him, not once.

Just like his friends.

Just like…

“Hmph, we’re staring at you and you didn’t think to invite me? To one of my favourite pasttimes? That’s rude of you, R, I’m hurt,” Enjolras mumbles into his shoulder, wrapping his arms around Grantaire’s waist from behind.

“I’m not sure everything you said there made complete sense, Enjolras,” Grantaire turns his head to press their foreheads together, slipping his arms over the top of Enjolras’ to hold him firm. Enjolras mutters something indistinct in reply and kisses him gently on the cheek.

“What are you doing up, anyhow?” Enjolras hooks his chin over Grantaire’s shoulder and watches him in their reflection. Grantaire does the same, seeing Enjolras’ head bob when he shrugs.

(Enjolras, whom Grantaire used to mockingly call perfect, never realising how much it got to him. Enjolras, who has scars of his own; where Grantaire’s were for despair, his were for every little self-described “failure” he ever committed. Enjolras, who has permanent frown lines creasing his forehead, but who has the most adorable crows feet crinkling his eyes when he laughs. Enjolras, who for all the world is the most beautiful creature Grantaire has ever laid eyes on, who has always tried so hard to get everything right that he’s only recently begun to learn to live, who is kind and passionate and compassionate and who Grantaire loves completely to pieces… Enjolras, who once hated himself too.

 _Everyone_ is a perfect contrast of personal flaws and talents and beauties and inconsistencies.

 _Nobody_ is perfect.)

“I’m just…” Grantaire pauses. A tired Enjolras is a truthful Enjolras. Any Enjolras is truthful to a fault, really, but a tired Enjolras hides nothing, so if he’s going to ask... “What is it about ‒ this ‒” he awkwardly gestures to himself and tries again. “...You’re physically attracted to me. Why?”

Enjolras grumbles in disapproval for a moment at his disparaging tone, quiets to think for a few moments, then answers. Slowly, as if he’s still picking his words. “You’re the most… Human, beautifully _human_ person that I’ve ever seen,” he makes a frustrated noise and plucks at Grantaire’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “Like, these. You’re an artist, but you’re also ‒ forgive me ‒ something of a hooligan. You create and destroy. You’re a stunning dancer and a scarily apt fighter, but I’ve seen you trip over dust at your most sober.” He lifts a hand and gently taps Grantaire’s bottom lip with the tip of his index finger. “You are capable of some of the most insightful philosophical musings of this century when the mood strikes you, and then the next second you’ll turn around and curse a blush out of a sailor.”

He shakes his head and chuckles. “You’re an oxymoron and a paradox and all these contradictory things; you’re a reminder that people are brash and beautiful and happy and sad and incredible and terrible and really quite remarkable, and that none of these things are mutually exclusive, and maybe that doesn’t sound like a compliment, but believe me when I say it really is.”

Grantaire turns, then, and takes Enjolras in his arms. “You ramble a lot when you’re sleepy, did you know?”

“Hmm,” Enjolras _hmm_ s agreeably. “You may have mentioned it a few times. Oh, I forgot to say; I’m in love with you.”

Grantaire laughs. “I know, Enjolras. You may have mentioned it a few times.”

Enjolras swats him on the arm weakly. “Rude.”

“That’s me,” Grantaire smiles. “Come on, let’s go back to bed.”

“Mmf, one more thing,” Enjolras says as they slide back under the sheets and he successfully re-attaches himself to Grantaire’s side.

“Yeah?”

“I love you. All of you. I don’t love you in spite of how you look, I love every single thing about you. Your body may not be exactly how you want it to be ‒ hell, I know mine isn’t ‒ but I just need you to know that you… You’re beautiful, okay? And even if you don’t love your body now, you’ll get there eventually. And until then, I’ll love it enough for the both of us. Ok‒” he breaks off to yawn. Grantaire’s heart melts a little. “Okay?” he tries again.

“Okay,” Grantaire pulls him close. “Go to sleep, I love you.”

 _With a little help from my friends,_ Grantaire thinks as he watches Enjolras drift off to sleep.

_I think I’m already on my way. I can learn to love myself._

_With a little help from my friends._

__

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I'm just trying to kick writer's block with this one.  
> I came up with the idea when I was away on holiday over 6 months ago, so this probably isn't as good as it could be.  
> BUT IT'S DONE!
> 
> [cityelf](http://cityelf.tumblr.com), at your service.
> 
> Please do drop me a comment or an ask, they're greatly appreciated.  
> And feel free to tell me things I should tag, because I know I've missed something.


End file.
